The Black Card
by Petra Todd
Summary: By day, Molly Hooper is a brand new pathologist about to start her job at Barts. By night, she's the dominatrix with a sweet voice and a knack for anatomy. What happens when Sherlock Holmes meets her at her other place of employment? (Complete)
1. Chapter 1

_**This will probably just be a few chapters long. I wanted to explore a reversal of the dynamic I had between these two in Send Me The Thorns. Going off Molly's blog created by the BBC, she's "Little Miss Perfect" to her friends, and she doesn't let other men talk to her the way Sherlock does, she isn't like that normally and it's "just him." I wanted those aspects of Molly to show. This fic contains BDSM (nothing too extreme) and eventually, sex.**_

* * *

Molly Hooper carried two types of business cards in her wallet.

One displayed her name proudly in a bold font the print shop assured her was trendy but professional. An impressive string of letters followed her name, and her brand-new Barts email and phone number lined up neatly beneath it. The stiff, cream-colored card nicely framed the lettering and the silver stethoscope graphic in the upper left corner.

She loved the stethoscope part best of all; it was her little joke, because none of her patients actually had a heartbeat. No one but Molly ever thought it was funny, though.

She'd seldom had an opportunity to give away one of those cards, but then they were fairly new. She expected she'd have the chance to whip out her pristine cards when she began her first post-schooling job, at Barts the following week.

The other business card was handed out more frequently but was kept in a less convenient place in her wallet- stuck deep into a tight pocket behind the club memberships she almost never pulled out.

This card was a glossy black rectangle without adornment, and Molly Hooper's name appeared nowhere on it. The first four lines of it read:

_**Elena Leopold's**_

~Discreet and Safe BDSM Dungeon~

_**10+ years in the heart of London**_

**By appointment only**

If one phoned the number listed on the fifth line of the card, they'd reach a perky-voiced woman who would happily set them up with an appointment for whatever kinky and legal bondage and discipline they had in mind.

She loved the black card because it had nothing to do with Molly Hooper, the unglamorous student who practically lived in labs and morgues. The confident woman who emerged in the dungeon, breathless in her white boned corset, would be scrubbed clean of makeup and sweat by the time she returned to the morgue every day to complete her studies.

She lotioned her hands religiously so the skin remained soft over the strong muscles, and no tell-tale calluses showed she'd been expertly flogging a barrister into the wee hours of the morning. She scrubbed her body carefully so there would never be any scents or marks to give away her secret. She kept her two lives clear and distinct from one another; even the thought of an overlap inspired panic in her gut.

Molly was at heart a perfectionist and an asset in the dungeon. Her anatomical knowledge and playful demeanor quickly made her one of the most popular dominas at Elena's. That she looked several years younger than her age was another point in her favor, the clients often preferring girls still at uni. She'd actually begun working in the dungeon during uni; the pay was fantastic and the hours brief, rarely interfering with her medical studies.

She never intended it to be anything more than a quick-money job, but over time, Molly found that she had a raw power that she'd never felt in her medical school. Pathology wasn't very interactive and she usually preferred that. In the dungeon, she relished the short periods when she was fearless and adored.

Over the years, she grew adept at constructing clients' dream role plays and controlling their corporal punishments, and she put her understanding of anatomy to good use. The hints submissives' bodies presented were as easy for her to read as the ones in the morgue.

_Well that's a bit disturbing_, she thought with a laugh, musing on her strange second career while getting off the tube and rushing up the stairs to work one rainy afternoon.

Molly brushed away the thought cheerfully as she opened her umbrella and hurried down the street. There was no doubt in her mind about her abilities and the value of her work, whether she was in a lab coat at Barts or in a skintight skirt and bustier at Elena's.

Shaking the rain from her umbrella, Molly ascended the staircase to the second floor, ignoring the man in the long dark coat who trailed behind her. The embarrassed clients never wanted to be acknowledged until they stepped through the door to the dungeon, and that suited Molly perfectly. Her inner self was as much a secret as theirs was.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes frowned at the album of photographed dominatrices that the elegant receptionist dropped in his lap in the waiting area. The preliminaries always frustrated him, in his expensive quarterly visits when he gave into his desire for release of a particular kind. There were too many phone calls, questions and rituals, and rules to swat away. But he only had to deal with it four times a year, and so it was a tolerable hassle.

"I don't need this. I'll see whichever one is free right now, as long as they are qualified."

"This is our usual procedure," the striking blonde insisted with a firm but gracious smile. "And you want to have a lovely time, don't you? I don't make the rules, anyhow so be a good lad." She winked and Sherlock's nose wrinkled in annoyance.

"Skip the lies, Miss Leopold," he snapped at her, his icy eyes flashing. "You do make the rules here, since you're the proprietor of the establishment, not the _help_. A phone girl would hardly be wearing what, £4000 worth of jewelry, would she? Not to mention the overlarge breast implants and the shin splints obvious in your gait. Leftover from the lengthy exotic dance career your website alludes to, I imagine."

The woman's practiced smile dropped a notch, and her green eyes glittered. "Yes, this is my place. And you will obey the rules or you won't be playing here, or anywhere else in the city. I'll make certain of it. Is that clear?"

Her polished voice rang with a razor's edge, and Sherlock relaxed.

The last dungeon he'd patronized had told him to find somewhere else to play after he annoyed the employees with overly accurate deductions. They'd let his challenging of them go on far too long, he realized now. It was the wrong house for him. But this place might work. Already the prospects seemed brighter.

He sat back in the upholstered chair, and flipped open the photo book, going through the pages quickly. On the fifth page, his fingers froze.

_Yes, this is the right place._

He pointed to the stylized photo of a slim young woman perched on a table with her legs crossed. She wore stilettos and a white lab coat with her head turned away from the camera. The fabric barely reached the tops of her thighs, and revealed less than a swimsuit did, but somehow she seemed more exposed than she would have nude. It was buttoned up to her modest cleavage, where a lacy pink bra peeked out. Her light brown hair was loose, and fell in soft waves across her breasts and her tilted face. Only the tip of her nose and her rosy pink lips were visible behind the silky curtain of hair.

"Her. I want her. Please," he added as an afterthought to placate the owner. He ought to have flattered her to begin with, but politeness was rarely the first tactic that came to his mind. His pale fingers began to drum on his thigh.

"Mistress Sophia. Excellent choice, one of our best," Elena said. "Fill out the card; we need a bit of info before we can start."

In the photo, the mistress had a wrist callus, a tiny scalpel scar on her finger, and a barely visible monogram on her authentic and new-looking lab coat.

Sherlock had always wanted to play with a mistress who had hands like a doctor.

* * *

"You're up, Sophia."

At the sound of her domina name, Molly poked her head out of the small room with a telly where the dommes changed and relaxed between appointments.

"Sorry I was late, let me slap some lipstick on. Someone left a huge mess at the lab that I had to clean up. I got to help with this really amazing case this morning where the victim's face had been torn-"

Elena cringed. "Let's not talk about corpses, yeah? Anyway, I may owe _yo_u an apology for this one," the owner said, waving toward the waiting room. "He's a weird one. But he's youngish and fit, which is a change of pace- nice arse that could use a good smacking. Here's his questionnaire."

"Thanks. Hour session?"

"Yes. I recommend you start by slapping the hell out of him."

* * *

_**Client Questionnaire**_

_Client no. 562214_

_**Preferred activities:**_ corporal punishment- moderate level, OTK, hair pulling, extensive bondage, sensory deprivation, sensation play

_**Favorite toys/tools:**_ cane, tawse, suede or leather flogger, crop, wooden hairbrush, nipple clamps, blindfold

_**Fetishes**__ (example: feet, leather, latex or rubber clothing, boots, etc.):_ Wear what's in the photo.

_**Health/physical concerns/restrictions**_**:** N/A

_**Dislikes:**_ Role play is tedious. Verbal humiliation and speaking in general is unnecessary.

_**Hard Limits:**_ No penetration or blood play, no CBT (CB bondage is acceptable), no body fluid contact, no permanent marks. No public scenes.

_**Safe word:**_coda

_**Additional Notes/Requests:**_ You design the session. I'm not here to do your thinking for you.

* * *

Molly strode into the room, confident she could handle the mouthy client. His questionnaire responses had made her giggle, with their snark. Truth be told, she preferred a sub who knew exactly what they enjoyed over someone who would just shrug and tell her to try "whatever." Sessions were in her control, but she wanted it to be fun for both of them.

In the changing room, she had slipped her lab coat on (not her monogrammed one from the photo but she doubted he'd notice), with matching stilettos, and shimmied into a pair of frilly knickers. They covered her bottom fully and went well with the dainty white lace bra she wore.

Molly slicked on dark pink lipstick, and touched up her mascara. She shook her hair out of the loose bun until it fell in shining waves over the shoulders of her white coat. Looking into the mirror and cocking a hip, she grinned and felt the excitement of a new client bubbling in her belly. She gathered her favorite toys in her bag, and asked Elena to start the timer.

She thought she was ready for him.

When she entered the room and looked into the face of her client, Molly realized she wasn't so sure anymore.

* * *

He finally heard the clackety-clack of her high heels as she walked toward the room he was assigned.

The wait was short, no more than ten minutes- more than enough time for him to grow bored with deducing the details of the most recent sessions that had occurred in the room. He slipped off his black jacket and draped it over the arm of the sofa, tapping his fingers impatiently on the leather surface as the minutes passed.

The walls were a soothing sky blue, and the white leather furniture was luxurious and nonthreatening. A series of pastel landscape paintings complemented the color scheme. The St. Andrew's Cross bolted to the wall and the armoire full of toys and ropes were the only indication that he wasn't in the parlor of a middle-class home.

The sound of her stride interested him. There was almost a skip in her step. If she were a medical student- and his deductions indicated she was- she should be old enough that her step was heavier, more serious. Clearly she eschewed the typical platform shoes that so many dominatrices wore, since the thin-sounding floor strike matched that of a stiletto rather a platform.

A sudden thought occurred to him. The info beneath her photo had said she was five foot three. Would she be imposing enough to top him if she wore lower heels and was more petite than the women he usually chose?

The speculations raced through his mind, the data gathered and crammed into a steady stream of overflowing information. Sherlock frowned and tried to push it away. The longer he went between appointments, the harder it became to manage the rush of information that assaulted him in daily life.

He needed this. He needed her to hurry. He needed her.

* * *

She stepped into the room, dropping her oversized black toy bag on the floor without looking, out of habit. Pushing her hair back, she turned to greet the client, who sat silent and black-clad on the sofa.

"Hello, I'm Sophia!" She had barely gotten the greeting out and extended her hand when the man turned and stood. _"Oh."_

"Oh what?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. His voice was posh and educated, a deep baritone. He frowned and a stubborn line formed between liquid blue-green eyes that were tilted like a cat's. His cheekbones were high and his nose proud and patrician. His dark hair was a touch too long and curly like a poet's, only there was nothing romantic about the sharp lines of his face. He towered over her, and his hand was strong when it clasped hers after staring at it surprised for a few seconds.

"Oh nothing. I just…it's nice to meet you. What should I call you? Elena didn't give me your name." They shook hands, and Molly had to remind herself this was her job and not a bar.

Because he was bloody _beautiful_. Not in the way that most people would think, no, he was something else. Strange and smart-looking, with iris color that kept shifting and hands like a concert pianist. His angles and oddness called to mind the darkness and light of a Caravaggio angel.

…_and he's almost unreadable. I have no idea what this man is thinking_, Molly acknowledged to herself, trying to quell an unfamiliar panic. _Oh god. He's a sub?!_

As if reading her mind, he took a step back and looked her up and down in assessment. "I'm Sherlock. Yes, that's my real name. And no I don't want to share anything else about my life. You've read the card? Good, let's begin."

Instinctively, Molly stood taller and found her center, the place where she could hold firm and remain in control of even the brattiest of subs.

"Yes, I've read it. Thank you for being thorough. It saves time. Take off your clothes and place them on the table."

His eyebrows rose at the sudden shift. He bent down to remove his shoes and socks, and set them on the floor by the table. Molly watched dispassionately, hands on hips with a mild smile on her face.

He pulled his black shirt from his trousers and unbuttoned it quickly. He folded it and laid it on the end table as ordered.

"Good." Molly bit the inside of her cheek and forced the expression on her face to remain unaffected. But his torso was lean and firm, and he had just the right amount of light hair sprinkled across his chest. She wanted to drag her fingernails across his chest just to see how sensitive his nipples really were, before slipping on clamps.

She smiled politely. "Continue."

His fingers found the button on his trousers, flicking it open and unzipping. A push dropped the trousers and boxer briefs underneath to his ankles. He bent and picked them up before folding the clothing and adding them to the pile.

He stood in his original spot and didn't speak, but Molly could sense that he wasn't completely with her yet. He seemed unconcerned with his nudity, no more vulnerable with his cock exposed than he was a moment before. (_And a nice cock at that_, her unprofessional side whispered to herself.) Usually losing their clothing stripped away the pretenses of powerful men who needed submission, but it wasn't helping with this one. She wondered again what sort of man had fallen into her dungeon. Her mind flashed back to the questionnaire and the information, the weaknesses exposed there.

Control had to be established with this one, or he'd break her before the hour was out.

She stepped close and peered up at him, her brown eyes gentle and warm. She gave him her most disarming smile. She allowed herself the pleasure of sliding her hands over his warm chest, feeling his nipples and rough chest hairs tickle her palms.

"Hmmm," she murmured, exploring the terrain of his torso. His nipples tightened as her fingernails scraped over him again. She looked up, and watched as his stormy eyes darkened. Her hand slid up his throat, over the tempting cords of his neck, and up into his wild curls.

Her hand tightened into a fist.

Molly's mouth curved upward again, her face cheery, but this time she let the power show. She gripped his scalp firmly and tugged until his mouth dropped open with a quick breath and his eyes narrowed. She yanked a little harder, seeing how he barely reacted, and this time was rewarded with a hiss inward. He leaned forward, to alleviate the discomfort, and she pulled harder, digging her nails into his scalp, kneading with the sharpness of her fingers while his hair tangled further with her digits.

"On your knees _now_," she commanded, her voice firm and cold. She didn't need to raise her voice to assert herself; she tugged downward and he went on his knees before her as fast as any obedient sub ever had.

"There will be no more backtalk." She slid her other hand into his locks, and dug deep, fisting the curls from the scalp so as not to pull hairs out. With both hands secure around his hypersensitive scalp, Sherlock nodded. She watched with interest as his cock began to harden and thicken.

"I understand."

"I understand, _Mistress," _she corrected him.

"I understand, Mistress," he repeated after her. She released his curls from her hands, and smoothed her palms over his cheeks, appreciating the strong bones there. He leaned into the touch like a cat, and Molly grinned.

"If you truly have an objection, you have your safe word 'coda' in place. Beyond that, I am always Mistress to you, Sherlock. Now, I'd say, we're finally ready to begin."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Thanks to Nocturnias, KendraPendragon, MuteBananas, MorbidByDefault, magicstrikes, Calicar, Lono, Elliesmeow, hihiyas, Juze, PhoenixCrystal, hipkarma, Doctor WTF, izzyherondale, Empress of Verace, Rocking the Redhead Cumberbabe, and Guests for their reviews of the first chapter!  
**_

* * *

Molly didn't think a gag was necessary anymore after she drove him to his knees, but she wasn't taking any chances with this one. After securing him to the steel St. Andrew's cross, with his face to the wall, she retrieved a strip of fabric from her bag of tricks.

Some dommes preferred to use ball gags, tape, or black leather pieces, but she used lengths cut from a white pillowcase. It was easy to customize and best of all, disposable. It didn't stay as tightly secured as some other options, but the homey feel of it appealed to her. She snipped two pieces off the folded material, and returned to her new sub.

Molly hung back for a moment to appreciate the scene before her, tucking her hands into her lab coat pockets and contemplating the session she had sketched out in her head.

Sherlock might be a brat and a challenge, but with his surprisingly muscled limbs spread apart and cuffed to the cross, he was _hers_ to play with. Figuring out what made this one tick would push her to do her best work. Not to mention, Elena was right about him having a nice bum.

_What's a tall lanky man like him doing with a great arse like that?_ she wondered before realizing, _God I am really unprofessional today._

She bit her lower lip to stifle a laugh, and poked through her bag to retrieve another item.

"One last question- Chopin or Paganini?"

His head tilted slightly to the right before quickly facing back to center. She had surprised him, she sensed. "Paganini, mistress."

Molly popped the CD into the player (Elena resisted all attempts at iPod-related modernization, much to her dommes' despair) and set the volume on low. Energetic strings played, forming a bouncing rhythm that filled her with optimism.

She strode up to his body, spread on the cross. She indulged herself and allowed her fingers to roam over his upper back, tracing the prominent scapulae and counting the vertebrae as her fingertips skimmed down his spine. His skin was smooth and warm, moving with the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Her hand wandered lower, sliding over the curves and hollows of his arse. He remained still and obedient as her hands squeezed, testing the resiliency of his flesh. She gave one cheek a light, experimental swat, and was rewarded with the sight of his cock moving between his legs.

"Oh my, you are sensitive," she remarked, smiling. Done exploring for the moment, she dropped the gag over his head and knotted it tightly in the back. The cotton strip was a bright contrast to his nearly black curls. She drew the second strip of fabric from her pocket and reached up to tuck it into his right fist locked in the leather cuff.

"Since this is our first time, we're going to try the gag for just ten minutes. If you want to safeword out, let go of the fabric; let it fall and we'll take a break. Is that clear? I want a clear nod or headshake."

Sherlock nodded curtly, his fist squeezing the white material. She felt the tension in his body growing, not relaxing as some subs would by this point. Some subs needed working over until they reached that breaking point where they could let go and be free in their headspace. She suspected he was one of them.

His head swung around and his bright eyes captured hers for a heartbeat. She was about to censure him, but the electric look in his eyes brought her up short. His mouth was distended and lips stretched apart by the gag, and above that his gaze traveled over her body. He took in the lab coat (her dungeon costume coat- she only used her best one for the photos), the exposed valley between her breasts, and her legs in the high heels. His eyes darted over to her bag before coming back to rest of the ivory garment that barely covered her.

_Oh right, the coat fetish_, she recalled.

"If you behave you'll be rewarded with seeing me later, but you haven't earned it yet. Turn now or you'll be blindfolded for the next hour." Molly injected her sternest tone into her usually mellow voice.

His shoulders tensed and his head flew back around to face the wall.

"Now then, a nice warm-up," she said cheerfully. "I shouldn't admit it, but I'm really looking forward to getting my hands on your arse."

* * *

She wasn't wearing the right coat, he mused as her hands caressed his buttocks, briskly rubbing and bringing the blood to the surface. It was a good replica of a proper lab coat, but it wasn't the real thing.

The one she wore in the photo album was monogrammed and obviously more expensive. On one pocket, the bottom half of an embroidered M had been visible, and what looked like possibly an H next to it. What she wore now looked to be made of cheaper material, had a nipped-in waist, and no monogram.

Why bother bringing the nice coat in, when no clients (but him, of course) would ever notice the quality, and then bring it home? He pondered that while her palms began to gently slap at the skin of his arse, progressively harder until she worked up a steady rhythm with moderate pressure. She was prepping him, not challenging him. He approved of her thoroughness. It was almost _clinical_ in the professional treatment and examination of his anatomy. Even when her hand had skimmed down his spine, he had sensed brief pauses as she moved from cervical to thoracic vertebrae, thoracic to lumbar. She knew every bone in his body.

He nearly groaned at the thought and leaned harder against the cross, letting his cock press against the cold metal while his arms stretched above him.

The solution popped into his head: she must have graduated, completed her schooling and training. She needed to use the quality coat now. Obviously.

A hard smack landed on his arse, in the fleshy center. She put full strength into the blow, and he jumped slightly. The cheek stung from her palm, and his stream of inner rambling was cut off by the sensation.

A hit struck his other buttock, identical in intensity. She repeated the smacks again and again, rubbing his skin continually, keeping him hot and flushed while his cock grew harder, despite the cold steel cross. Sherlock moaned against the gag, squeezed his fists, and felt warm relief spark in his gut. Release from the endless stream of thought was coming; he felt the first bloom of submission forming.

She finished his warm-up with another series of stinging slaps, until he was aching and knew his butt must be rosy red. He was ready for more, and his wrists and ankles moved in their cuffs as he began to strain backward to lean into her hands.

The mistress brought his body to life with precise and methodical expertise, her small hands never missing their mark and going too high or too far over on his hips. She was everything he'd hoped she would be when he saw her surgeon's fingers in that tacky photo album.

_Perfect. Please don't say anything stupid to ruin it_, he thought desperately.

When she dropped her hands and stepped away from him, he swore in frustration against the fabric between his lips. Hearing his muzzled groan, she laughed, her sweet voice slightly out of breath.

"Beautiful. But I know you can handle much more. You're still thinking too much! Stay in your current position." She turned and scooped up her bag. Rummaging around, she pulled out her favorite toy and twirled it in her fingers like a baton. Sherlock twisted his head toward her voice, unable to resist a bit of disobedience in his curiosity.

Stroking the narrow black shaft of the tool, Molly beamed at him with enthusiasm shining in her brown eyes.

"We'll start with the riding crop."

* * *

Her arm ached by the time she was finished turning him into a moaning, arching thing. Thought fell away and there was only reacting, his body moving with the touch of her tool. His breathing was heavier and sweat beaded on his shoulders, but the white flag remained clutched in his fist. If anything, he lifted his arse higher and harder against the crop the longer she worked him over. She unbuttoned her white coat, beginning to overheat with the exertion.

Then for her own amusement, she angled the crop and delivered a flurry of blows so that the leather tongue left triangular marks that created a red flower on his skin. His skin turned shades of red and pink and back to white with such sensitivity and variation that Molly was intoxicated with it.

_The things I could do with this man if I had more than hour_, she thought, a touch wistful.

Molly checked the clock, and decided it was time to switch things up and give him a rest. She tossed the crop onto the sofa, and slid her hands over his red-hot arse.

He shivered, and the muscles in his belly and thighs flexed. The lactic acid must be building up in his arms, she considered. She reached up and opened the clips that held his wrists in place.

She lowered his arms, massaging the muscles and inspecting the pink marks the cuffs left behind. The white strip in his fist slipped to the floor as his hands relaxed.

"Face me, Sherlock."

He turned immediately, his curls bouncing with the quick spin. Molly grinned up at him, and she saw an answering light in his sea-colored eyes.

He looked almost_ happy_. The wariness and bored scorn that he'd displayed before had melted away under her hands, and he waited patiently for her next order.

Molly squeezed his biceps, kneading his muscles with her thumbs. Satisfied, she reached behind him and untied the gag, before throwing it aside.

She rubbed the light marks on his face with a curled finger, soothing away the impression of the gag. She traced the outline of his Cupid's bow lips, and nervousness bubbled up in her belly, the sort she thought she left behind whenever she walked into the dungeon.

For a mad minute, she'd had the urge to stand on her tiptoes and cover his lips with her own. Sherlock watched her curiously, his sharp gaze following her fingers and then searching her own eyes.

"What? What do you see?" she asked, when his staring became blatant.

His expression abruptly shuttered. He blinked, and his eyes grew icy. She felt the developing connection between them severed.

"You, mistress. How would you like me to serve you next?"

* * *

She was aroused.

He hadn't expected that. Dommes typically enjoyed their sessions with him, he believed because of his high pain tolerance, but didn't feel anything deep for a sub like him that they hadn't chosen for themselves. He didn't take it personally during any of previous sessions; they provided a valuable service. He paid them, and it was a satisfying transaction. Submission on his terms, the only ones he could live with.

Mistress Sophia (_not Sophia_, he reminded himself, _her real name starts with an M_) smiled up at him, lips parted, her brown eyes wide and pupils unmistakably dilated. Her lab coat was pushed open, the skin of her chest and belly pink. Even though she'd stopped cropping him a minute ago, her respiratory rate was still accelerated, and her dark nipples were hard, pushing through the white lace of her bra. Her body was flushed and brimming with energy, and her scent was salty and musky from her exertions. He imagined if he slid his hand down her frilly knickers, his fingers would slide through her folds easily. He felt his balls tighten and his cock stir again.

He shoved the thought away, locking it in a far closet in his mind: a rubbish fancy to shred and delete later.

It took him another ten seconds to realize there was a slightly wounded look in her eyes now that he was refocusing. The submissive side of him howled at Sherlock for upsetting his domina. _Fix it_, the instinct said. She'd been pleased with him a minute before but he was hurting her somehow when he closed himself off. Frustration over not understanding _why_ it mattered caused his hands to curl into fists.

It was so much easier to please his dommes when they simply struck him; this woman behaving as though she liked him was unbearable.

Sherlock quashed the doubt ruthlessly, resuming his cold and perfect pose.

"How would you like me to serve you next?"

She closed her eyes briefly and the hurt was gone when she opened them again. Her cheery mask was in place, and in a rare moment of insight, understood that his domina had her own disguise, a bright-eyed version of his defenses.

She smiled, and slid her hand down his abdomen to tap her fingers on his inner thighs. Instinctively, he widened his stance.

"For starters, how about we tie this down," she said, grasping his cock firmly. "See if you can't focus better without that distraction."

* * *

For the remainder of their time together, he lay stretched on a mat on the floor, and his mistress used her body weight to pin him down. The gag stayed off, but he was silent anyway, and eventually she fell silent, only their catches of breath and the faint strings of a Paganini caprice filling the room.

She was light but her thighs were strong, squeezing him around the middle until he was breathless. She was merciless with the nipple clamps, manipulating them with a precision he could imagine her using on scalpels.

Sherlock was ordered to keep his hands, secured in handcuffs, up over his head, but comfortably on the floor. She wanted his focus to be entirely on the alternating pain and pleasure she was teasing from his nipples.

She tested and experimented with his body, her fingers roaming and prodding while she sat casually on his groin. His cock was tied snugly upward, bound to his belly, hardening with every rock of her knickers-covered arse on him.

She felt the urge again, the desire to lean into and taste his mouth, but she ignored it. The unspoken moment that had passed, only his coldness stepping between them, was best forgotten.

After she grew bored with pushing his limits of tolerance on his front, she rolled him over and smacked his arse until he scrambled to his hands and knees. She shucked the white coat and dropped it on the floor beside them. Her spiky stilettos followed, and she was only clad in her white knickers and bra. She hopped to her bare feet and grabbed the suede flogger from the bag.

She bent to one knee and tilted her head to look Sherlock in the eyes. He was calm at last, and his eyes were hazy and warm. She ran her fingers through his damp curls.

Molly almost spoke, but decided against it. He had relaxed, given into the spell of submission, and she was reluctant to pull him out of that place before she had to. She held the handle of the flogger beneath his mouth, and without being ordered, he kissed it gratefully.

* * *

After flogging the flesh of his arse, back and thighs into even pinkness, Molly cooled him down slowly. She snipped the strings that held his cock and balls in bondage, and relief poured off him.

Molly turned her face away so he wouldn't see the deep dimples in her cheeks. She was still feeling him out, and didn't know how he'd react to her offbeat sense of humor. Some subs reacted emotionally after playing and needed a more drawn-out period to come out of their subspace. Some snapped back to pre-play personalities the moment they came out of bondage.

"Stand," she ordered softly.

Sherlock lifted his head, shook as if it to awaken himself, and jumped to his feet.

Molly stroked his back, relishing the marks of her skill. She rubbed down his muscles, appraising the marks. Nothing damaging, and she hadn't broke his skin anywhere. Her arms ached with the intensity of the flogging she'd delivered, and she was as sweaty as he was now, her hair tangled and wet. Satisfied, she rested her hands on his shoulders, and smiled up into his eyes, wanting to thank him somehow for his trust.

Sherlock searched her eyes as her hands lingered on him. Without thinking, he lifted his hands and settled them on her hips. His fingertips dug into her hips, pressing through the lace edging of her knickers and triggering something hot, low in her belly. His brow wrinkled, almost in confusion, but his hands grew tighter on her hips. If someone walked into the room at that moment, Molly realized, they would never have been able to tell who was the submissive and who was the dominant.

He opened his mouth to speak-

And was interrupted by a loud knock on the door.

"Five minutes, Sophia," Elena called.

"Thank you, Elena," Molly said automatically, without taking her eyes from Sherlock's. He broke the stare first, glancing toward the door and then down at himself. Without another word, he hurried over his clothes and donned them quickly.

Sensing he was going to rush out, Molly grabbed her bag and dug inside. "Here," she blurted out, thrusting her hand toward him.

Sherlock frowned at the black card in her hand.

Molly explained, "For appointments. I'm not going to be here that often anymore. I've got a new job, but I could make time for you if you-"

"That won't be necessary," Sherlock cut her off. He pulled on his shoes and jacket and without another look, strode out the door.

* * *

When Molly exited the dungeon that night, she left the mistress behind- her and the client who had affected her so embarrassingly. The evening was cool and clear, and her umbrella tapped along the pavement to distract her from obsessing over why he didn't want to see her again.

It wasn't until she got back to her flat and tried to sleep that Molly began analyzing what happened. What had almost happened. For a moment, she could have sworn he was attracted to her, truly. But then he ran.

What sort of submissive ran from a dominatrix who was skillful (Molly was modest about some things but never her skill) and to whom he was attracted? He dressed too well for money to be the issue. It didn't make any sense. The insecurity that plagued her in her own personal life was usually discarded at the dungeon, but now she felt her separate lives mixing together in a painful way. She tossed and turned for an hour, before the bodily exhaustion he'd help induce in her led her to sleep.

* * *

The following Monday, she began her new full-time job at Barts. Her training had been elsewhere, but everyone assured her that Barts was an interesting and well-run site. It had a strong working relationship with the Met, and most of the interesting forensic cases wound up in their morgue. Molly was the top of her class, and knew she'd earned a shot at a place like that.

Mike Stamford introduced her to everyone when she arrived (an hour early and with biscuits for her new coworkers), and showed her to their shared desk space. She had her photo taken for her identification and felt foolish when she realized she hadn't taken her old glasses off for the picture.

Everything was perfect though, when she finally arrived at _her_ morgue.

"It's beautiful," she gushed when he explored the morgue with her and showed her their state-of-the-art storage drawers and fluid drainage system for the body tables. "Oh that sounds a bit creepy."

"It's alright. I know just what you mean," Mike said with a laugh. "You may as well jump in; no time like the present. Assist Davison, he'll show our particular preferences for the paperwork, since every hospital's different. By the way, I'll be back after lunch to see someone about the Dominic autopsy. If he arrives early, tell him to wait-I've run some special tests on this one. It's a _serial murder,"_ Mike added theatrically.

"Oh, is he a copper?" she asked.

"No, someone else. You'll see," he said mischievously. "But regardless of what he says, don't let him take any heads with him before I turn up."

* * *

Dr. Davison reviewed the Barts standard paperwork procedure. She'd seen plenty of that in her training and studies, but this was the next step, much more responsibility and Barts seemed to have twice as much paperwork as the last morgue she'd studied in.

After two tedious hours of paperwork lab, the pathologists heard a flurry of activity in the hallway. A minute later, a flustered Mike Stamford rushed in.

"He hasn't been in here yet bothering anyone, has he? Holmes?"

"Who? No, it's just us," Molly confirmed.

"Alright. He's in the hall having it out with Lestrade from NSY about him being at a crime scene without his permission. I swear, _living_ people are the worst part of this job sometimes. Who needs 'em?"

Molly and Davison nodded in agreement.

The door behind Molly and Davison swung open, banging on the cabinet. A posh baritone voice rang out.

"Are you finished, Stamford? You're becoming as inefficient as Anderson. I need the results immediately."

"Good afternoon, Sherlock," Mike said amiably. "I've got the toxicology report right here. Come in and meet our new pathologist. _Your_ new pathologist, I might say, since I've got my promotion and Davison here won't work with you anymore."

"Piss off," Davison said, throwing a familiar two-fingered salute at the man at the door.

"How are the sores, Davison? Do all three of your sexual partners know about it yet?" Sherlock smiled tightly.

Molly's mouth dropped open, and her cheeks turned scarlet. It was _him. _He looked exactly the same as he had in the previous week, down to the dramatic black overcoat and imperious demeanor. What the hell was he doing at Barts?!

"She's brilliant, Sherlock, and will be an asset- try not to scare her off. Here," he said, passing her a folder. "This is Sherlock Holmes. He's a detective. Will you go over the tox screen results with him? A meeting with the board's come up. Remember he can't leave with any of our forms. No matter what he says."

"Uh yes. Alright. A detective?" Molly's eyes flew around the room, and she wondered if "mortification" was an acceptable cause of death on an autopsy in the 21st century.

"Are you alright, Dr. Hooper?" Mike smiled pleasantly, and resettled his glasses on his nose.

"Consulting detective. Give me the results." He stared into her eyes with no discernible emotion, and the coldness forced a response from Molly.

"Give me five minutes with the file, and I will assist you," she replied quietly. She felt a touch of anger; she'd expected to see the same shock she felt, but instead he treated her as a stranger.

_Isn't that what you would prefer?_ A small voice in her head chided her.

No. No, it wasn't what she wanted anymore.

"I'm off for lunch. Text me when the arsehole is gone. Here's my number. Cheers." Davison strolled out the door.

"I'll come visit later. You're going to be fine, I can tell. You fit in already!" Mike said happily. He waved goodbye and ambled to the hallway. Through the window, she saw him stop to chat with the silver-haired man pacing in the hall and gesturing toward Sherlock.

Unable to put it off any longer, Molly turned to the man, the 'consulting detective' she was all too familiar with.

She squared her shoulders and held the folder to her chest with her arms crossed. Summoning her courage, she looked him straight in the eyes.

"I would appreciate it if you would not mention my _other_ job to anyone, anywhere."

"It never happened," he said crisply.

"That's what I would like people to believe. I'm not ashamed of my work, but I'm just beginning here and –"

"_It never happened,"_ Sherlock repeated. His blue-green eyes were glacial and hard. "I need the test results from you, Molly. Nothing more."

She breathed deeply and said under her breath, _"Doctor_ Hooper."

"What? Speak louder." He frowned at her, and she saw his eyes go to the folder. She got the feeling he would grab it from her if she didn't produce the answers he wanted soon.

"Nothing, it doesn't …um, give me a minute and I'll help you."

And so she did.

* * *

After explaining that the tests confirmed the victim had died from asphyxiation caused by the same rare tubocurare toxin that had killed the other serial victims, Molly stood quietly and waited for his reaction. She showed Sherlock the toxin levels in the stack of reports in the folder.

He skimmed the page and then closed the file, passing it back to her before walking out without a word.

* * *

Molly Hooper.

_MH._

That was the monogram and that was the coat, the one in the photo that hugged her body now in the morgue of Barts. When he walked in and saw her face and familiar small frame as she turned, he thought he was hallucinating for a terrifying moment. Because it couldn't be, he hadn't deduced this possibility at all.

The dungeon was far from Barts and so he hadn't considered it a feasible option when he'd allowed himself to speculate, over the last few days, about where she worked as a doctor. He'd seen the shoes of the anonymous woman when he went up the stairs behind her, arriving at the dungeon, and they didn't indicate she'd traveled far. The wet umbrella she'd carried led him to think she'd walked there from somewhere close by.

A mistake. A minor one that mattered a great deal, as it turned out.

She was in his morgue, and she'd be in his _lab_, his home away from home. She was unavoidably necessary to his passion, his science of deduction. The dominant woman who'd straddled his body, torn moans from his mouth with her thighs around him, and seen him at his neediest. The one mercy was that he'd kept himself from coming while she sat on his bound cock and teased his nipples. Later, after he'd run back to his flat, he'd barely made it to his loo before he came so hard, he saw stars.

And she'd be wearing that _damned white coat _all the time. Having a fetish for something so commonplace was the most annoyingly inconvenient thing he could conceive of. He blamed too many hours spent in the lab at uni during his biological sexual peak. Not that he'd taken advantage of that period of his life in any way; he'd been content to sublimate the urges into his work most of the time, even then. But the sexual connection between the elements remained.

Molly Hooper. Nothing more could ever happen between them. He'd kept it together today even with the shock of seeing her there. He could live with the inconvenience of her awkwardness until they adjusted.

And he would simply have to grow used to that wounded look in her eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Thanks to Miss Writer Girl, Attracted2Insanity, Lono, whytejigsaw, Cumberbabe, Adi Who is Also Mou, MorbidbyDefault, MuteBanana, KendraPendragon, Calicar, kipkarma, whoaswetha, PhoenixCrystal, Doctor WTF, Elliesmeow, Empress of Verace, magic strikes, 42monkeyswriting, savagealias, queen scheherazade, Rocking the Redhead, LaserGirl77 and guests for their reviews of the last chapter. This story is now complete!_**

* * *

She scoured his website and learned that Sherlock Holmes claimed to be the world's only consulting detective, that he could observe and deduce everything. It made sense that Scotland Yard might need help on occasion, but she was surprised he had such a broad access to crime scenes and her territory at Barts. He never explained how he came to be so trusted and valued by D.I. Lestrade.

She never knew when he would pop into the morgue or the lab and take over the place. Even when he parked himself in front of a microscope and peered into it without speaking for a half hour, his presence was dominating. She was constantly aware of his slender fingers adjusting the knobs, and of the way his nose would wrinkle when the results frustrated him.

He was cold and painfully neutral toward her most of the time.

Sherlock was true to his word, and it was as though their heated session togetheshivr had never happened. At first, Molly thought she would feel like throwing up every time he came by the morgue, but that urge quickly passed. There wasn't time for queasiness and overanalysis when he was firing questions at her about autopsy results and badgering her into releasing body parts for experiments. Handling the full force of Sherlock's intelligence and energy left no room for anything but focusing on the present.

And over the months, the strangest thing happened: it was almost like _nothing had happened_, as he insisted. She still remembered his body shaking beneath hers (thought about it quite often actually) but it seemed irrelevant when it came to their present hospital interactions. They were professionals. Well, _she _was. He was erratic and ruthless in his way, but eventually she realized she could trust his discretion in that one matter.

There were still awkward moments though.

Once settling into her position at Barts, Molly accepted very few appointments at Elena's. She'd intended to keep up a reduced schedule at the dungeon, so her skills wouldn't get rusty, but she was simply too tired to do both jobs well. She was bone tired every night after leaving the morgue, from the autopsies, lab work, and the political navigation of working in a hospital, and from the paperwork, the damned never-ending paperwork.

She agreed to see a longtime client for a lunchtime appointment, a cheerful judge who tipped massively and loved creative bondage and flogging. The session went well as always, the older man regaling her with tales of amusingly stupid criminals in his court while he was bound in a complicated web of ropes. He wasn't particularly submissive but his masochistic streak was sizable. She left the session with her biceps aching from heavy use of her tools.

Afterward, Molly cleaned her flogger and treated it, realizing she'd been neglecting it the last six months. She had to rush though, as she was due back at Barts for the rest of her shift. There were still two bodies waiting to be sent off that she'd procrastinated over during the morning.

When she hurried into the morgue, Sherlock was already there, arguing over a fresh corpse with Davison.

"I have permission from Stamford, so don't waste my time. You're late. Where have you been?"

It took Molly a few seconds to realize he had switched halfway through to speaking to her instead of her colleague. Before she could explain, Sherlock's gaze wandered over her face and body. He sniffed and his lips tightened.

"Davison, leave. You're not needed."

"I'm leaving because I want to, you shit. Don't think I won't check with Mike on this." The other pathologist stormed out.

"I'd suggest you wash your hands more thoroughly before you come to work, if you don't want people asking why you reek of leather soap. And leave off applying the oil, since its scent and look is also rather o_bvious_." His tone was cutting as the words poured out. Sherlock's green-blue eyes were icy and focused on the shiny smear of oil on her trousers.

"I did wash up, but it's strong. Don't ever speak of that here." Annoyed, Molly frowned and rubbed at the spot futilely. She grabbed her lab coat from the hook and slipped it on, hiding the oily mark with the long garment. "It never happened, that's what you said. Behave, _please."_

He stared at her, lingering on the monogramed pocket, and Molly remembered how his eyes had burned for her in her white coat when he was cuffed to the St. Andrew's cross.

Their eyes met now, and she felt a shift; the aggressive thrust of his shoulders relaxed. Sherlock simply stood, waiting. A familiar warmth filled her and she felt anticipation similar to what she felt when she stood in her dungeon, about to wield the whip.

Molly's eyes widened and she licked her lips nervously. In her dungeon, she would have known what to do. But at Barts…what did he expect from her? Was he still attracted to her? Should she try to do something about it and upset the delicate balance they'd achieved over the months? Molly froze in fear.

The moment drew out, neither moving from their safe spot on the floor.

Finally he broke their stalemate by striding over to the body on the table. He unzipped the bag and flipped it open.

"How fresh?"

"Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes. Used to work him. I knew him. He was nice."

* * *

She didn't know what hurt more, the rejections or those rare times when he was nice to her.

The uncomfortable moments came and went, but her constant awareness of him didn't fade. He seemed to notice everything about everyone but little about her unless it was something that could hurt or annoy her. She tried to carry on with her life and go on dates, but most of them were abysmal failures. Normal men were just so dull, she couldn't pretend to be attracted to them.

Jim was interesting. Jim was _interested,_ in her. He was sweet, intelligent, and gentlemanly, submissive in his demeanor, but she couldn't picture dominating him at all. The dynamic was all wrong, she knew on an instinctive level. There was something steely there, beneath his soft surface. It was disconcerting. She wasn't sure she would have gone on more than one date with him if she hadn't been trying to make Sherlock jealous by blogging about her new boyfriend.

_Gay._

God, she felt so stupid when Sherlock pointed out the clear flaw in choosing Jim to make him jealous. The transparency of what she'd done mortified her. Finding out Jim was a criminal and a murderer was the icing on the cake. Finding out about it from _Davison_ of all people and the Barts water cooler gossip, instead of from Sherlock, made it ten times worse.

Sherlock never said a word about it.

* * *

Christmas. One last attempt to convey to him what she felt, that it had nothing to do with their moment in the dungeon over a year and a half before.

And that was the truth. A pretty man with a nice body who loved to submit was fun, but she fell in love with Sherlock Holmes's brain. His incredible runaway train of a mind was what captured her, and that he chose to use it to help people. He claimed to not like anyone, and it might even be true, but he spent his life solving crimes, not constructing them. It would've been so easy to flip the switch in the other direction. He could have been like Jim, but instead he was a hero, even though he didn't understand that.

She dreamed about presenting him with a collar, but that was more of a fantasy for her alone time in bed.

For Christmas, and the unexpected invitation to the Baker Street gathering, she carefully wrapped an antique astrolabe she'd found in a dusty shop. She'd been awestruck and wickedly happy when John Watson informed her Sherlock was a borderline idiot when it came to astronomy.

_He's not bloody brilliant at everything, ha._

He was trying to rectify that lack of knowledge apparently, and she thought the brass piece was a charming reference and a sort of gentle teasing.

Sherlock made it brutally apparent when she turned up at the party that she was unwelcome. She tried to ignore it and chat with the other guests, but his complete disinterest in her was made clear when he deduced the details of the gift she'd wrapped for him so hopefully.

Not just the gift, but the comments about her mouth and her breasts_. _She tried to summon the mistress from the dungeon, to bark the words that would have come so easily to the woman in the stilettos.

But her voice sounded broken even to her.

_You always say such horrible things, every time. Always, always._

* * *

The name provided for the woman on the table, the dead body, was Irene Adler. Cause of death, blunt force trauma to the skull, causing internal bleeding. The catalogue of the damage done to the woman was horrible.

Sherlock identified her by her nude body. That was enough to make her pathetically jealous for a second, but when she googled the woman's name the next day, she could barely breathe.

_The Woman._

The scandals attached to her name were everywhere in the society pages. Her website was glossy and full of terms Molly knew intimately well. She'd heard of a domina who dared to call herself merely _the_ Woman, as if she were the only one that mattered, but the Woman didn't socialize with other dominatrices or work out of a house. She was an independent who worked out of Belgravia, catering to the absurdly wealthy. She was beautiful and vicious, and according to the few clients she knew who'd met the Woman, absolutely brilliant.

Sherlock knew her body exactly and he was the man they brought in to i.d. her corpse.

_He must have been special to her. She was,_ she thought with her throat tightening, _she_ _was special to _him_. She was his domme, not me. What happened between us never really mattered._

* * *

He looked like he was dying.

She remembered the way her father joked with his mates, how he'd offer to help fix their car as though his liver wasn't being replaced with cancer cells and killing him slowly. There was a space between his two front teeth when he grinned, and it always seemed to her that he would laugh even in the face of death.

But when Dad sat back on the stoop and watched his friends drive away after a night watching football, she would watch him. She saw how the relaxed smile would fall away, and he would trudge back inside to stare at the wall, wincing as the pain took hold of him.

Whenever he realized she was still hovering quietly, his face would light up and the knowledge of his long death would disappear from his expression like it had never existed.

Sherlock wasn't much for broad smiles. Sometimes he'd smirk in a smug way when he was proven right or taking pleasure in a thorough deduction. She remembered how his face lit with a happy glow when she took him down into sub space, and he gave himself over to her hands.

Now he watched John Watson putter around the lab, and the raw sadness in his eyes was unmistakable.

* * *

_I don't count._

He couldn't shake off the shock. He'd spent the last three years try to convince her that she meant nothing and it had worked. Only it had worked too well. He'd meant to push her away, to keep her from pursuing him when he couldn't let anything distract him. She thought she didn't count. She wasn't a puzzle, despite the contradiction of her domina and her pathologist sides. It seemed obvious to him from the beginning that the two halves weren't that dissimilar. She wasn't an enigma; she was complete, whole and genuine.

Sexual attraction was ephemeral for the most part. Though he'd desired her when she topped him, and on occasion, still felt annoying flashes of lust for her, it never caused him hesitation. Even the Woman's blatant invitation to explore their uneasy attraction had been not that difficult to turn aside. Once he helped her solve her predicament, he lost interest in the case. He rather liked the Woman, and was content she existed still. She had her world and he had his.

He kept coming back to Molly though. She was the best of Barts, despite her awkward sense of humor and vulnerable eyes. He didn't think it even required explanation, given her credentials and quick rise to popularity amongst her colleagues. How could she not know that she mattered? What had happened to them in the dungeon was incidental to the work they'd accomplished, to the help she'd provided over the years.

Of course she counted. Why did it even have to be stated?

There wasn't time to fuss over the issue. The fall was happening, as Moriarty planned. But his puzzles were not quite as mysterious as the consulting criminal liked to imagine.

It was as Sherlock had planned, as well.

It helped that he and Mycroft had been anticipating a move on the criminal's part for over a year. His brother had been careful to feed Moriarty exactly what he wanted him to know when Jim thought he was the one in control.

We're never as in control as we think, he thought. If we think we are, we're usually the most wrong.

_I've said the wrong things again, Molly. I need your help and I need you._

* * *

_"You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you."_

He couldn't even bear to look at Molly, in the darkness. It took him several minutes to pinpoint his feeling as shame. Shame for being so terrible at understanding people that he didn't even try anymore, even with the people worth trying for. Interpreting people's emotions exhausted him when he needed to focus his energy elsewhere, but he had used his difficulties as a way of hiding- from her.

He faced her, and her shining brown eyes that saw through him, even in the dark. "Would you still want to help me?"

Her gaze was steady. "What do you need?"

He stepped closer and gave up fighting the simple truth. "You."

Her eyes widened. "How?"

"Moriarty. He's coming for me. I need a body that can pass for mine. And some other things. I have to disappear. It's what _he_ planned, but I mean to come back eventually."

Molly dropped her purse to the floor and touched his forearm. "I'm so sorry I brought him closer to you. It was so childish of me. How much time do we have?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You brought him closer- no. He would've come down here himself as IT if you hadn't introduced him sooner. I intimated that you were indirectly responsible for his crime spree only to manipulate you into helping me and breaking your lunch date."

She smiled slightly. She rested her hands on his upper arms and squeezed. "I know. But I did tell him things about you, when he asked. I thought it was just chat, but…I wish you had told me yourself who he really was." Her eyes challenged him.

"I didn't want to talk about him with you." His tone was almost petulant but he took another toward her, the front of his coat brushing her cardigan. "What good would it have done?"

"I deserve that much from you," she said. The air between them grew warmer as their bodies moved closer. She peered up at him, and in the faint light, saw his eyes narrow and jaw tighten.

"He placed his hands on you repeatedly in the lab. The degree of familiarity suggested other physical intimacies." His face was bleak.

"Discussing him makes you think about him touching me, kissing me?" The thought of Jim made her cringe, but Sherlock needed to be pushed.

"It shouldn't have happened." His head bent forward, and he pulled her against his chest, and pressed his lips against her forehead. "He didn't need to date you to get to me. He knew about you. Wasn't it obvious? He's been watching me for years. He knew if there was a conflict, a problem of-" Sherlock hesitated.

"Emotion?" Molly whispered, slipping her arms around his waist and burying her face into his coat. She was caught between delirious joy over being in his arms, and terrifying fear that he would shut down again.

"Sentiment," he said, lifting his hands to cup her face, "Need. Me not always being in control. Moriarty is a fool though. He never understood about you. Retaining feelings for a woman I wasn't sleeping with for this long was unfathomable." He laughed bitterly.

"You don't have to be in control." Molly slid her hands up his chest and over his throat. He swallowed hard and she felt it against her palm. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him softly, her hands dropping to claim his. "I'm here. We'll fix this. I'm going to take care of you tonight. Anything you need, you have me."

* * *

Arrangements were made. Blueprints and bodies secured, precise measurements of the rooftop laid out and plotted. Everything mattered: the angle toward the street where John would stand, the distance between the truck and the roof, and the area in between that needed to be controlled at all times. Staffed by Sherlock's homeless network and monitored by his brother, who held some vague government position.

They gathered the pieces of the plan to complete the long-brewing clash between Sherlock and the mastermind.

It was 3am when Molly herded Sherlock into a cab and asked the driver to bring them to her flat. If it was his last night in the world, it would be with her.

"You need to rest. I insist," she said sweetly, and he smirked, looking out the window.

"Whatever you say," he agreed, lacing his fingers with hers, where their hands met on the backseat. Anyone else would be exhausted by then, but Sherlock's body hummed with energy. His thoughts raced and zoomed around the corners of his brain, searching for possible roadblocks.

When she opened the door to her flat, she paused. "Toby doesn't usually like people, so don't be offended if he runs. Or hisses at you."

Sherlock sneered. "He liked Jim. Not sure it's a very smart cat."

Instead of being offended, Molly's face lit up. "You read my blog?" Then her face fell. "Oh, I wasn't talking about you when I said those things, I meant, um…" Her cheeks turned red. "You know what? I did. I meant everything I ever said about you." She wrinkled her nose. "Sorry."

Distracted, he closed the door as they entered and tossed his coat onto her small sofa. Without explanation, his shirt followed the coat on the pile. He bent down to remove his shoes and his hands fumbled with them.

Molly turned on a lamp and stared. A sound suspiciously like a squeak was heard.

Sherlock looked up. "You were right, I need to rest. Not my body though. Everything is, it's too fast." He set his shoes by the sofa, socks tucked inside. "I should have asked first. I forget that sometimes."

Molly shrugged off her coat and cardigan, laying them on top of his shirt. "Yes you should have asked. Begged, really. But you're right." She kicked off her shoes and padded over to him, slipping her arms around his waist. Sherlock grinned down at her.

"Oh you think you've won, that we're still on your terms." Molly stepped back and undid his trousers, shoving them down to his ankles. "We're not. Let go. Have faith in me." She smoothed her palm over his chest, dragging her nails over his sensitive belly. His shoulder relaxed and his fingers uncurled. "Yes, that's right."

She tugged down his boxer briefs and freed his hardening length from the fabric. Molly knelt and curved her hands around his butt. She leaned in and kissed her away up and down his cock, tickling his foreskin with her tongue and letting the darkening head of him slide into her mouth when he grew thicker. He exhaled heavily, but controlled himself. She nuzzled him and smiled against his skin when his hands suddenly dug into her hair.

"I wanted to kiss you like that when you were tied up. It's unprofessional, I felt nasty about it. But you're lovely." She sucked him into her mouth again, letting him slide in and out her throat until he was rock hard and gripping her hair in a very non-submissive manner. That would not do. She pulled away and smacked him hard on his right butt cheek.

At that, his cock moved against her lips and she giggled. "Something amusing?" Sherlock asked drily.

"You have such an expressive face, I should have known all your parts would be the same. Try not to be a wiseass, Sherlock." Molly confessed, "I don't want to gag you. I love your voice."

"If you say so, Mistress," he agreed. She stood up.

"Take my clothes off." She tried to sound regal but it came out sounding eager instead. She cleared her throat, and repeated the order.

She didn't have to tell him again. Molly realized she was definitely going to have to tie him down when stripping her took several minutes. He seemed to "accidentally" brush his fingertips over every inch of her flesh, and protested he hadn't meant to graze the curve of her butt with his lips as he moved around her body.

"You weren't this bratty last time."

"You didn't know me then," he sassed, and Molly sunk her fist into his hair and grabbed a tight fistful of curls. She pulled him down to her level, and kissed him soundly, their tongues moving against one another's for the first time.

"Hmmm yes, now I remember why you were behaving." Her fingers wiggled in his hair, and he groaned. His hands locked onto her hips, squeezing, before one hand snuck down further. He slipped two long fingers through her wet folds and stroked her clitoris. She arched and ground into his hand, anchoring herself in his curls and moaning.

"You sneaky bastard. You're a right handful," she laughed. She slapped away his fingers and he pouted.

* * *

He was much more cooperative and focused on obeying when he was handcuffed to her headboard. Her footboard was solid and wouldn't work with cuffs, but she improvised with two long pieces of rope she kept her in trusty bag. She tied his ankles far apart, to the edge of her double bed.

When Sherlock gave in, accepting her help and accepting her domination, she had known she would have him this way. She didn't want a tangled web of binding and manipulated bodies. He was simply secured and _hers_ to possess. She climbed on top of him, and settled on his lap.

Molly caressed his cheek, and bent down to kiss his lips gently. He lifted his mouth up for her to enjoy but he pushed no further, accepting the love she lavished on his lips, his cheeks, his neck. She sampled and licked her way down his throat, wringing sighs and muffled curses from him as she discovered his hot spots, scratching and teasing his nipples. The genius detective was reduced to a pliant body, freed from the usual overloaded rush of information once the sensations she inflicted took over.

"Molly?" He needed to say it before he was truly lost in the peaceful oblivion he felt coming.

"Yes, Sherlock?" She leaned over the side of the bed to yank open the table's drawer. She dug through the mess until she found a wrapped condom.

"I'll be gone a long time. There are other things that have to be done after Moriarty is out of the picture. There's a real chance I may not come back. Are you sure you want this?"

She crawled back to his lap, and tore the wrapper open. Fishing out the condom, she rolled it onto his thick shaft. "Are you being sensitive, Sherlock? Not sure I know how to handle that." She smiled and scooted up to look him in the eyes.

"_Yes,_ I'm sure. I knew what it meant when I fell in love with you. Even if you were clueless." She kissed his cheek.

He searched her brown eyes, and whatever he saw there was enough. His shoulders and arms relaxed. When Molly straddled him again, and sank down, taking him inside herself, Sherlock strained against the ropes and thrust into her without reservation.

* * *

He kissed her awake a few hours later when the car arrived for him. She'd stayed conscious long enough to uncuff and untie him after they came together twice, gasping with the intensity of it.

"Are you ready?" he said. His silky baritone still made her shiver, after three years.

"Yes. I will be. You have to trust everyone to do their part. And me."

Their mouths found each other again.

"I trust you. If I'm not dead, I'll be in touch." He reluctantly pulled away and headed for the door.

"Oh!" Molly cried, hopping from the bed, wound in her sheet. "One more thing. Here." She opened her purse and flipped open her wallet.

This time he accepted it. His eyebrow rose.

"I have your information in my new backup mobile already."

"But if you lose it, you won't have any numbers and then I won't know if you…Just take it, okay?"

Sherlock kissed her hard on the lips and pocketed the card.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes exited her building to find Mycroft's car waiting. They had a few points to cover before the meeting with Moriarty later on the roof.

Before reaching the vehicle, he paused and looked up to her window. The blinds were closed.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the white card. He skimmed it, a smile touching his lips. The stethoscope was an amusing touch. Ghoulish really if one considered that her patients were all dead. It was purely Molly Hooper.

He tore the card in half, and then again, shredding it into tiny pieces of paper before depositing it in the rubbish bin and hopping into the car.

He couldn't bring it with him, of course. He would be hunting killers- amoral assassins and ruthless businessmen who needed to go down with Moriarty's ship. He couldn't bring something that would lead them straight back to Molly if he lost it or was killed.

Now that he'd give up fighting it, he would always be able to send a message or find his way back to her.

* * *

Molly watched from the building across the way with binoculars. She saw Moriarty gesturing madly and walking in a comical way. She wished Sherlock had let her listen in but he'd been wary Moriarty would check for a wire.

Everything went as planned. The consulting criminal destroyed himself with a bullet and the foolish belief that he'd brought down his archenemy.

For Molly, it was like watching a stranger die. Jim was nothing but a bad dream. But it was time for Sherlock's great performance. He pulled out his phone and began speaking. Molly set down the binoculars and raced down the stairs to get to her appointed place by the Barts entrance.

_Oh god, John, _she thought as she ran. _I am so sorry. I will take care of him, Sherlock. We all will._

She reached the bottom, hit the pavement and looked up, scanning the roof's edge.

There he was.

The truck was in position below.

Molly's hands shook. A foot in the wrong direction and he would die for real, before her very eyes.

Sherlock stood on the edge, hovering over the city he'd done so much to help and then been betrayed by.

Molly glanced at the street, spotting John arriving in the distance. He was speaking into the phone, distraught, his eyes never leaving Sherlock above.

_Now_, she thought, _You've got to take the leap now, Sherlock. Have faith it will work. _

_Jump_, she prayed.

And he did.


End file.
